


Prodigal Tongue

by Pasta_Muffin



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: And Gwent, As canon as I can make it, I am only familiar with the TV show and the books, Multi, Spy Jaskier, he is not good at his job, incompetent spy, is that a thing?, no beta because we die like Calanthe, prudent cowardace
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:02:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24928861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pasta_Muffin/pseuds/Pasta_Muffin
Summary: When Geralt abandons Jaskier at the mountain, Jaskier comes to realise he is totally screwed. War is coming, he's getting threatening letters from a man who should not be ignored, and heading for the hills seems like the best possible option until it becomes apparent that Jaskier is no good at steath.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this before I change my mind. Will probs edit it/add to it as I go.  
> Note: added a bit to round out the chapter. Sorry!

Jaskier flinched. His face went hot, a sick knot blooming in his stomach. He swayed on his feet, hazy and indignant, and a part of him wanted to laugh. This wasn’t happening, not really. He forced the feeling down and said, “See you around, Geralt.” He turned on his heel and fled.

Half marching, he somehow made it to the camp. Setting himself in the dirt, under the meagre shelter under which he’d spent the previous night, Jaskier sat. He waited, part of him expecting Geralt to appear, aware that their every meeting had been engineered by Jaskier himself. Jaskier waited an hour. Geralt did not appear.

Jaskier sighed. “Fuck.” He fair kicked to his feet and he levelled a furious kick at the wooden shelter support. It shook but somehow remained intact. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Dropping his lute to the ground, he dragged his hands through his hair, panting. Dread, hot and sick, crawled up his throat. This wasn’t how this was supposed to have gone down.  
He’d thought, naive, that he could somehow convince Geralt to go with him, to keep him safe. It had worked before, at Pavetta’s betrothal feast, even if Geralt ultimately hadn’t needed to protect Jaskier from the men who truly wanted him dead.

Nilfgaard was on the march, and Jaskier would be thrown into the middle of that mess. New evil overlords, indeed. Hell, he’d already been neglecting his duties, and that last letter had… Jaskier tried not to think about it. He had to disappear, and Geralt had been his last hope. Jaskier did not see any way he could not only talk the man into accepting his company and somehow steer him toward the coast.

There was no way he could stride back up to the man and, what? Beg for forgiveness for being too manipulative, too pushy? Get on his knees and say “I’m sorry for being me, but in my defence, I’m kind of really fucked. I’ve pissed off the wrong people, and I need to disappear, and I latched onto you because I was ordered to gather intelligence, and what better way than to work as a bard and write annoying songs about a total stranger? Oh, yeah, I’m also a spy, and I’ve been lying to you for the entirety of our acquaintance.” Geralt might decide to just push Jaskier off the mountain and be done with it.

Although… Perhaps it was better this way. Geralt was too recognizable, even for long stints in the wilderness, and that was Jaskier’s damn fault. White hair and golden eyes would be a beacon, at this point, and it would’ve been so much simpler if Geralt had just gone back to Cintra and accepted his Child Surprise. They could’ve all fucked off to Zerrikania, by now. Geralt would doubtless return to Cintra, eventually, collect the princess and bugger off into the wilderness. Now, they’d be hunted, and Jaskier hadn’t known how to tell Geralt about that intel, without revealing his true nature to the man.

Jaskier pushed the thought aside, his priorities shifting. Geralt had been interesting, a means to an end, and Jaskier had caught feelings. It was neater this way, even if it felt like someone had poured molten lead directly into Jaskier’s lungs. Geralt could look after himself. Jaskier couldn’t let himself think about what could happen; he needed to disappear.

Reluctant, he raised himself to his feet, gathered his things, and made his way to the bottom of the trail.

*

It was difficult to measure his pace: Jaskier had little desire to face Geralt, and he definitely had no wish to run into Yennefer. Irrational, Jaskier blamed her for his predicament: If only she'd gone to Nilfgaard. Then, maybe, Jaskier wouldn't have been facing the prospect of being a wartime spy. Before, it had been fun, in a dangerous sort of way. True, he hadn't chosen to get involved in espionage, but it had been enjoyable in a way. He'd enjoyed the frisson of danger. Keeping secrets, hiding in plain sight, using his career as a bard as an excuse for travelling from court to court had felt romantic. Jaskier had been an idiot, and he'd only started to feel the teeth of the trap close around him when it was too late to back out.

Eventually, Jaskier came upon Roach. Curious, she nosed at him as he filched through her saddlebags. After two decades of travelling together, on and off (with more off than on, to be honest), it had been difficult to keep his things separate from Geralt's. Ocassionally., a shirt migrated to the wrong bag, or a coin purse was left in the possession of the more sober of the pair on any given night in any given inn or brothel. It was almost heartbreakingly easy to disentangle Jaskier's life from Geralt's. Jaskier swallowed around a lump in his throat.

"Look after him," Jaskier said to Roach. He patted her on the flank one last time, she whuffed in response, and Jaskier made for the inn.


	2. Chapter 2

Lettenhove was a nowhere hamlet, tucked away in the armpit of Redania. It was the sort of place with two roads, an inn and an unnecessarily large castle to overlook the dozen houses. It was little more than a way station, a place you passed through to get to somewhere better. That said, being placed on the only road between cluster of jagged mountains, it was of strategic importance—he only reason it had been burned to the ground by one invading army or another. Jaskier hadn’t bothered to keep track of who, since it was most likely collateral rather than an actual invasion that had levelled all but the castle. Jaskier’s father had died, his mother’s grave scoured for valuables.

You might expect an epic tale of narrow escapes. Of a young noble fleeing from an army and seeking sanctuary with a strong ally. That was not the case. Jaskier was already an adult by the time of Lettenhove’s destruction, already finishing his studies at Oxenfurt, already estranged from a father he’d encountered all but twice. Julien Alfred Pankratz took on a stage name, shedding the role of Viscount. What use did an obliterated township have for a wastrel who hadn’t wanted the responsibility to begin with?

For five years, Jaskier was safe. Well, safeish. You see, he met this Witcher, but you now that. No, what I’m referring to is his return to Oxenfurt, several years after making Geralt’s reluctant acquaintance. Twenty-five and full of the arrogance that comes with knowing you were smarter than you were at eighteen, but not understanding how little that meant, Jaskier swanned into the first pub he found.

Triumphant and full of stories, even if they were embellished beyond recognition, a crowd soon formed around Jaskier. A knot of students, all just a few years his junior and all eager to hear of the outside world. What were the courts like, was the road truly that romantic, did Witchers really smell like onion? Drink after drink was pressed into his hands, stories drawn from Jaskier’s lips with the ease that comes with interrogating the extremely drunk.

Quickly, Jaskier found himself drawn into a card game. True, Jaskier was a touch wiser than he had been when he’d first found himself in Posada, but he was not yet smart enough to know to never play a card game when you don’t know the rules.

*

Jaskier found himself spread across a straw mattress, sunlight needling directly into his brain. It took a moment to unpeel his tongue from the roof of his mouth. He opened his eyes, hissed in pain. His eyes fell upon the man sitting in the corner and the groan rose into a shriek. A bear of a man, bald headed and extravagantly garbed, was in his and had, ostensibly, been watching him sleep.

“Dignified,” the man sniffed. He looked Jaskier up and down, appraising. He rose to his feet.

Jaskier sprang off the bed, darting toward the window. “I swear, I didn’t sleep with anyone.”

“No, not for lack of trying.” The man shook his head. “I’m here for financial reasons.”

Jaskier tipped his head back, squinting. “I don’t owe anyone money.”

The man laughed. “As of this morning, you do. Gwent is not your game.”

Jaskier wilted. “How much?”

“A king would struggle to pay it off.”

“Fuck.” Jaskier edged toward the window.

The man shook his head, slow and amused. “Not a good plan. I’ve heard of your reputation as an escape artist.” Jaskier peered down, though bird shit-smeared glass, onto a narrow stone road. Three men, armed with a variety of sharp objects, waved up at Jaskier.

“Fuck.”

The man crossed the room. “There is a way you can pay off your debt.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes again, heart racing. “I’m not sure if any brothels are hiring, and really I don’t think I’m the best person suited to—oh, okay, you move waay too quickly—”

The man leant into Jaskier’s space. “Shut up.”

Jaskier shut up.

“You’re a bard, a man with an all access pass to any court willing to listen to his screeching.”

“It is not—” Jaskier froze, thought better of it, nodded.

The man carried on, as if there had been no interruption. “I need to go to courts, sit in on banquets. I want information, who’s doing what to who.”

“You want me to be a spy,” Jaskier said, blank. “I do not do stealth. Ask anyone.”

“I don’t want stealth, I want information.” The man shifted his weight onto one foot. “Do it, or you die.” He smiled and turned toward the door. “It was interesting, making your acquaintance, Julian Alfred Pankratz, formerly Viscount of Lettenhove.”

Jaskier knew better than to call after him. He knew who this man was, if only by reputation. Sigismund Dijkistra was not the sort of person one says no to. “Yours, too,” Jaskier said, weakly. He sank onto the floor, head in his hands.


End file.
